


Not a Warlock

by fhartz91



Series: Daddies Klaine [16]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Daddies!Klaine, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Future Fic, Halloween, Light Angst, M/M, Tracy is a boy and not a girl in this, Trick or Treating, discussion of homophobia and bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 19:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12153501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/fhartz91
Summary: Kurt and Blaine's son Tracy has a unique request for what he wants to be for Halloween, which Kurt is more than happy to help him with, but it ends up coming with some unexpected stress ... and an equally unexpected revelation on Kurt's part.





	Not a Warlock

**Author's Note:**

> Tis the season once again. I'm feeling a little Halloween-y so I thought I would post this. This is also a re-write. Let me know what you think <3

“What an adorable little warlock!”

Kurt sighs to himself. It’s the first comment that they’ve gotten so far, but they’re only at the first house on the block. Kurt knows it’s not going to be the last.

“Actually” - Kurt puts his hands protectively on his son’s shoulders, preparing to deflect whatever unintendedly offensive remark his explanation might garner - “he’s dressed as a witch this year for Halloween. Not a warlock.”

“Oh?” The woman at the door, holding a bowl filled with Butterfingers (Tracy’s absolute favorite candy in the world), sizes the little boy up and down. Kurt’s son stands patiently on the woman’s doorstep dressed in a black, ankle-length gown that Kurt designed and made; holding an authentically-styled besom, which Kurt and Tracy made together using twigs they’d gathered in their front yard. Kurt spent close to an hour doing Tracy’s makeup, covering the boy’s skin with green face paint, shading his cheeks and eyes black to make his chubby, cherubic boy sinister (which didn’t work too well since Tracy’s natural cuteness prevailed against Kurt’s makeup mastery). Kurt even fashioned a hooked nose prosthetic and wart from liquid latex. Kurt went through all of this in the hopes that Tracy would look undeniably and unmistakably like a witch, a la Idina Menzel from _Wicked_. But, apparently, it didn’t work as well as he thought. “But, aren’t male witches traditionally called warlocks?”

“Maybe,” Kurt says, keeping his voice bright and his disposition cheery for as long as he can before he’s forced to call on his inner papa bear for reinforcements, “but Tracy decided he wanted to be a witch for Halloween, so that’s what he is.”

“Yup,” Tracy says proudly, holding his bag up for a piece of candy, “and Hepburn is my animal familiar.” Tracy looks over his raised arm at the Ander-Hummel’s pet Labradoodle sitting obediently beside him. The woman’s eyes follow. She raises a brow at the off-white colored dog. Tracy leans in close to the lady putting two bars of chocolate in his bag. “We were going to dress him up as a cat, but I thought that might be a little mean. You know … because he’s a dog.”

“Gotcha.” The woman gives Tracy a wink that, thankfully, looks genuine. “Well, you definitely have my vote for best witch costume this year. Happy Halloween!”

“Happy Halloween!” Kurt smiles, steering Tracy down the street. He breathes a sigh of relief, but it doesn’t calm him. They’ve just started their route. They still have about three blocks of houses to go.

And each one goes about the way Kurt pictured it.

_Knock-knock._

“Trick or Treat!”

“What an adorable warlock!”

“I’m a witch.”

“He’s a witch.”

“But isn’t a male witch called a warlock?”

“Normally, I suppose, but this year Tracy wanted to be a witch. So, he’s a witch. Trick or Treat!”

_Knock-knock._

“Trick or Treat!”

“Look at the cute war---“

“Witch. He’s a witch.”

“I’m a witch.”

“But, aren’t male witches…”

“Still a witch. Happy Halloween!”

_Knock-knock._

“Trick or Treat!”

“Oh, Tracy! What an inspired little warlock---“

“Witch! He’s a witch He’s dressed as a witch this year, not a warlock! A witch!” There’s an awkward moment of quiet staring between Kurt and the matronly lady at the front door. His smile, about as fake as his exhausted, twitchy lips can form, somehow grows to meet the lines wrinkling his stressed brow. “Happy Halloween!”

By the twenty-fifth house, Kurt’s face is frozen with strain. He’s smiling too tight and grinding his teeth. Before people open their mouths to say anything about his son’s costume, Kurt barks out, “Witch! He’s a witch. Not a warlock, but a witch! He wanted to be a witch, so he’s a witch! Got it? Trick or Treat!”

If Blaine was going door-to-door with them instead of manning their own front door with a bowl of full-sized Snickers, he would joke that people are giving Tracy two candy bars instead of the requisite one (which they are) not because he’s so damn adorable (which he is) but because they want crazy-eyes Kurt Ander-Hummel to go away and not come back later in the night to torch their houses.

_Knock-knock._

“Trick or Treat!”

“Oh, Tracy!” Mrs. Henderson, one of their older neighbors, with a son already grown and gone, puts a slightly shaking hand to her lips as she gets a good look at the beaming boy on her doorstep. “Don’t you make the sweetest little---“

“Witch!” Kurt cuts in, his reaction a reflex by now. “He’s a witch!”

Mrs. Henderson stares at Kurt, wide-eyed with surprise, but aims a delighted smile at Tracy.

“I was just about to say what a smart little witch you make, Tracy,” she says. “And what a bold costume choice.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson,” Tracy says, rolling on his heels and waiting patiently for his candy.

“You know, when my Artie was seven, he wanted to be Malibu Barbie for Halloween.”

Kurt’s stiff veneer, crackling along the edges, softens at the green-eyed woman addressing his little boy.

“Really?” Kurt asks, astonished.

“Yup. He’d made up his mind the second those dolls hit the shelves, and asked me for a costume every day after that. Told everyone we knew about it. Even told people on the street he’d just met.”

“Why did he want to be Barbie so badly?” Kurt asks, relaxing enough to lean against the doorframe, no longer gearing up for an argument.

“Well, look at her!” Mrs. Henderson chuckles. “She had a dream house, a Corvette, she was a doctor, went to the moon, flew a plane, she was even president!”

“True,” Kurt agrees, surprised that he’d never thought of it that way. With the way people always cry out to ban Barbie for promoting an unhealthy body image, Kurt had overlooked all of the positive things Barbie has done in her life, things little girls (and boys) should be encouraged to try and do.

The conversation pauses while Mrs. Henderson reaches for a treat for Tracy, the inevitable question hanging in the air, but Kurt feels like a hypocrite for considering asking it.

“My Artie isn’t homosexual,” Mrs. Henderson says, answering the question anyway, as if she knew that’s what Kurt was waiting for. She tucks a homemade popcorn ball and a Three Musketeers into Tracy’s bag. “But that wouldn’t have mattered. Barbie is a role model as far as I’m concerned, and I felt there was nothing wrong with it. Other people” – She shrugs – “well, you know what they say about opinions and butt holes.”

“Mrs. Henderson!” Tracy exclaims with a giggle.

“Yeah, I know.” Kurt laughs. “So, what did you do?”

“Well, I made him two costumes that year. I made him a Malibu Barbie costume - the gold swimsuit with a pink cover-up shirt that ties in the front, and a big blonde wig. But I also made him a Superman costume with a cape and …” Mrs. Henderson shakes her head. “You know, in the end I knew which one he was going to pick, so I put extra time and effort into it.”

“Which one was he?” Tracy asks. Kurt inches forward, on the edge of his seat.

Mrs. Henderson puts a finger up, reaching out to a shelf by the door for a photo album. She flips a few pages, then shows Kurt and Tracy a photograph of a smiling boy in a blonde wig, wearing a gold bathing suit with a pink cover-up.

“Oh my goodness!” Kurt chuckles. “He looks adorable!”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Henderson says, holding the album lower for Tracy to see. “You know, there were three other children dressed as Barbie that year, but he was the cutest. Everyone said so.”

“Where’s that costume now?”

“Artie’s daughter wore it for Halloween a few years back,” she says, returning the album to its shelf. “This year she wanted to be Cobra from G.I. Joe, and you know, no one gave her any grief about it. Most people think it’s cute, her being a fan of  _boy things_.”

Kurt nods. “Strange, huh?”

“Meh.” The older woman waves a hand in front of her face. “It seems to be the way of human beings to try and stick everybody in a little box with their name on it, and three lines maximum saying who they are, but there’s only one time in your life you should ever let that happen, and even then, make sure you approve of the summary.”

“Yeah,” Kurt says, catching her meaning. He remembers his mom and dad both saying something similar when he was growing up. It’s still excellent advice. “Good night, Mrs. Henderson. Thanks so much for everything.”

“Yup,” Tracy agrees, happy to move on since most of the conversation had started going over his head. “Your popcorn balls are the best!”

“I’m glad you like them. Have a safe night.” She sends Kurt and Tracy off with a final wave, then closes her door, and the smile on Kurt’s face starts to look a little less manic.

***

“Okay” - Blaine climbs under the comforter with his worn-out husband, already in bed and reading a magazine - “I got the story from the munchkin while I was tucking him in. Now you tell me - how did it go?”

“About sixty/forty.” Kurt closes his magazine and sets it aside. “But to tell you the truth, by the time we reached our last house, I began to realize that most of the stress of the evening was on me. Nobody was trying to be mean to Tracy or make him feel bad about his costume. It just needed a little explaining. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“Did you see the look on his face when he got home?” Blaine lays with his head in Kurt’s lap. “If anyone  _did_  give him the evil eye, I don’t think he noticed one way or the other.”

“They didn’t,” Kurt reassures him.

“That’s good,” Blaine says with _a they better not have or else_  expression on his face.

“That’s because we live in a nice, polite, mostly tolerant, sheltered little hamlet,” Kurt says. “We might have our differences with a few of our neighbors, but for the most part, they’re decent people.”

“Does the include Mrs. Sebiane?” Blaine raises his eyebrows playfully, waiting for the rant he knows is coming.

“Okay” - Kurt starts, talking mostly with his hands - “I mean, I love butterscotch chips as much as the next person, but please! They shouldn’t go in everything!”

“She says it’s her _secret ingredient_.”

“Yeah, well, FYI, it isn’t a secret, especially when everything she bakes comes out puke orange!”

“Oh, God! That image is going to be burned into my eyes forever!”

Kurt crosses his arms, grazing his husband’s nose with his elbow, but Blaine stays put. Horizontal with his head in his husband’s lap is one of Blaine’s favorite positions in the world. But right before Blaine’s eyes, the fire in Kurt’s expression dims, and an overall look of tired returns to his face.

“Blaine?” Kurt stares at the wall when he speaks, at the pictures hanging there of their little family – Blaine and Kurt on their wedding day, Tracy on the first day of school, his father and Carole from last Christmas, old pictures of Finn from way back in high school. His eyes land on those and stay there, on pictures taken in the choir room, the auditorium, the gym – places he considered both home and hell for him. “Is it awful that I hope that Tracy … isn’t gay?”

Blaine sighs. He saw this coming, and not just because of tonight. It’s been weaving its way into the background of many of their recent conversations with regard to their son. The moment Tracy asked Kurt if he could be a witch for Halloween, at the start of the school year when his class started reading selections by Roald Dahl, Blaine had seen something foreign in Kurt’s eyes, something Kurt wasn’t talking about, something Blaine himself had never even thought to consider.

“No,” Blaine says, taking his husband’s hand, “it’s not awful, sweetheart. It’s understandable. You don’t want him to have problems. You don’t want him to get bullied the way we did – Slushied in the face or beaten up outside of a school dance. You don’t want people to make the choice to hate him without getting to know him. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“If the world were just a little bit different …” Kurt starts, but a sniffle stalls his progress.

“I know.” Blaine kisses Kurt’s soft skin. “And it’s Tracy’s generation that has to carry the burden of making it different. I mean, you and I, and the generation after us, we’re doing what we can, but I’m not sure it’s going to be what it needs to be when the time comes.”

“That’s part of what I’m afraid of,” Kurt admits in a shaky voice. “I catch myself praying that if he _is_ gay,  _he_  changes, not the world, and I …” Kurt’s words bleed into a nervous laugh “… I kind of hate myself for it.”

“Hey” - Blaine sits up, pulling his husband into his arms and rocking him gently - “it’s okay. Don’t be so hard on yourself. I mean, isn’t that _my_ job?” Blaine bounces his eyebrows, and Kurt chuckles at his husband’s weak attempt at raunchy humor.

“You’re not doing it very well if I’m thinking about all this heavy stuff.”

“It’s okay to be scared,” Blaine says, kissing his husband on the forehead. “You’d be a fool if you weren’t. But the important thing is that if Tracy ever does come to us and tell us that he’s gay, or bi, or pan, or ace, or trans, or anything else under the sun, that we’re the most loving, supportive parents we can be, right? We should live in the kind of world that accepts our son no matter what, not the kind he needs to change to live in, but … that’s not reality.”

“I know,” Kurt says. “We have to roll with the punches, and be prepared to handle the big issues when the time comes.”

Blaine runs a hand through his husband’s hair, cradling his cheek when his palm brushes against it. “No one said being parents would be easy.”

“You’re right.”

“I know I’m right.” Blaine chuckles. “It happens quite a bit. You always sound so surprised.”

Kurt shakes his head. “How did you get to be so smart, and compassionate, and know the perfect thing to say all the time?”

“I lucked out.”

“Genetics?”

Blaine squeezes his husband tight. “Nope. I married the smartest, most compassionate man I’ve ever met, and he’s been rubbing off on me ever since.”

 


End file.
